This perverse Dickensian tale has the makings of a modern day Christmas classic: a morality play gone awry in almost too many ways to count, with a Scrooge who realizes that even if he’s generous, the bank account’s still full. There’s Christmas past, present and future, all rolled into one icy rainstorm as a Benz whisks Cusack from tense to tense.
If it sounds like another maudlin Christmas movie to you and if you’ve had enough of The Christmas Story to last a lifetime, consider this: Cusack plays a mob lawyer involved in a “perfect crime,” partnered with Billy Bob Thornton as the muscle guy with motivation. Set in Kansas, we’re made aware of the contradictions at play; you can almost hear Sen. Brownback chiding his congregation, ahem, constituency against the evils portrayed herein. This is the other Kansas — one that was left behind as rock ’n’ roll moved out of Kansas City for Detroit, New York and Los Angeles. The political ambiguity still allows for a critique of greed and hypocrisy, something Daniel Kasman notes in his review.
Ramis returns to a familiar theme: small town claustrophobia. But unlike Groundhog Day, the danger in Wichita Falls is as palpable as it is inevitable. As Cusack skirts the cops and his would-be killer, we learn how desperate everyone is to escape; think of a thousand toasters dropped into a thousand bathtubs in the name of existential freedom. But for Cusack and his company, there are no easy outs.
If The Pardoner’s Tale were a Christmas comedy or Groundhog Day a noir soaked in rain and bourbon, then The Ice Harvest would be a brown paper bag waiting for you Christmas morning beneath the tree, decorated with blood red ribbon.
This is more than just good news. As I wrote here, this is a promising film, but as usual Laserlight couldn’t have done any worse with handling and presenting it. I have some details regarding the forthcoming Criterion release, but they’re unfortunately not at my immediate disposal. Actually, they’re already published!
There’s probably no more overlooked figure in my knowledge of film than Woody Allen. He’s always been on my radar; I saw Sleeper as a pre-teen and knew immediately that his was a sense of humor and a sensibility I could automatically appreciate. Annie Hall too. Maybe I thought that said too much about me, but this could be some Carly Simon psychobabble about overwraught, intellectual narcissicists.
So it was after seeing Manhattan that I completely fell in love with Allen as a filmmaker. I can think of few examples where someone can not only tell a beautiful story in such a self-contained, self-absorbed manner. And it’s educational! Allen keeps no secrets about his influences and his films always point to cinematic history. His appreciation for Bergman in Manhattan is not only a metaphor but also a compliment.
In fact, it’s to Allen’s credit that he can so lightheartedly present audiences with film lectures while telling a story at the same time. It’s good because there has to be some way for moviegoers who aren’t neurotic, self-loathing Jewish New Yorkers to identify with his characters. Those caricatures are what people find funny — these reified distortions sometimes look like cartoons not people and not monsters — making it easier to come to grips with the story itself, which might be painful in ways that hit too close to home.